


Sinking Into Shadows

by Green



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Dubious Consent, Horror, M/M, Monster Stiles Stilinski, Teen Peter Hale, Tentacle Sex (sort of), Uninformed Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/pseuds/Green
Summary: Peter's monster under the bed invades his dreams and his waking life. Maybe they're both lonely, or maybe Stiles is just doing what monsters do.





	Sinking Into Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a playlist (by me). It's [here on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5D25wfyupJBFkerWYlmNPs?si=-aW1uXt8SLuitpVBbaZ7RQ). I was a little sad that it got dropped by the original writer who picked it, and then no pinch hitters wanted it. But this way I was able to write a fic that'd been percolating in my head for about 5 months. :)
> 
> This fic is probably the darkest I've ever written. Which isn't to say it's **super dark** , but it is. A little.
> 
> Thank you to Mal for so much support and advice and the shoving (*grin*), and to spacewolfcub for invaluable help with the end.

There's a monster under Peter's bed. It's been there for ages. Waiting. Growing stronger. Peter can hear it there sometimes. 

When Peter was small, the thought scared him. He had enough monsters in his life and was afraid of another. But the monster never moved out from under the bed, never spoke, never touched him even when he bravely dangled his feet over the edge in the middle of the night.

The first time he did it, he heard a soft, rusty sound. A laugh. It made him snatch his feet right back up and tuck them under the covers. But the monster never attacked.

It wasn't until he was much older that he realized the monster was just waiting for an invitation.

* * *

He never told anyone in the pack about the monster, not even when he was scared of it. At first, it was because he knew they'd laugh at him. Then, later, because the monster was something he could keep to himself.

Peter's monster was _his_.

* * *

At sixteen, Peter's almost always alone. His parents are both dead, and his sister Talia thinks she's in charge of him. She has her own children — not that Peter's a child — and little time or attention left for him. 

He doesn't have friends, just people he cozies up to and uses sometimes. Talia is too worried about pack politics and her failing marriage to notice just how lonely Peter is.

To him, turning to the monster is just a natural progression. 

He starts by talking to it. Telling it stories about his day, about the stupid kids at school and how gullible they are. Peter would die of embarrassment if he ever did some of the things they got up to. But boring, god. So boring. Nothing was original or inspired. He has moments where he wants to claw a few throats out in plain view just to see what the others would say.

That makes the monster laugh.

Peter thinks he must be doing something right to get that reaction.

"I've never heard you talk," Peter whispers in the dark. He knows the monster can hear him just fine. " _Can_ you? You don't have to, of course. I just wondered."

There's no answer that he can hear.

He falls asleep wondering what the monster's voice would sound like. What it actually looks like. Is it hairy, fangy, like his own beta shift? Or is it smooth and pale from being in the dark for so long? Is it humanoid, or more like a shadow? Or is it both?

His mind whirs, and he dreams.

* * *

"Hello, Peter."

He's dreaming and he _knows_ he's dreaming, but the voice sounds like it's right in his ear. He turns and sees a boy standing a few feet away. 

"Who are you?" Peter asks. He's never seen the boy before. He's attractive, though his eyes look sunken. There is a smattering of moles on his cheek and his lips are… distracting, even before they curve into a smile.

"You can call me Stiles," the boy says. 

"How'd you get here?" Peter asks.

"Guess," the boy says mischievously.

"Are you my monster?" He knows he shouldn't ask, but what if the boy is?

"Possessive little thing, aren't you?" Stiles says. His eyes glitter strangely. " _Your_ monster. Really?"

Peter blinks. "You are."

Then Stiles is suddenly behind him, pressed against his back. He has one hand gripping Peter's throat tightly, so tight Peter can't breathe, and he should be terrified.

He's never felt more alive.

"I think you have it backward," Stiles growls in his ear. "I think _you_ are _my_ monster." He circles around to face Peter, his eyes glowing an otherworldly amber.

Peter closes his eyes and nods as best he can. Stiles laughs and lets go. Peter falls back...

...and wakes, gasping for breath. He checks his throat, wondering at the way it feels cool to the touch. The rest of his body feels too warm, tingly. His cock is throbbing, and he aches to palm it through his boxers. He doesn't, though. The monster is probably attentive to everything he does, now.

Did the monster invade his dreams, or did Peter simply imagine something he wants? _Is_ it something he wants?

He rolls out of bed, ignoring his erection, and heads to the bathroom for a cold shower.

* * *

"That was you in my dream, wasn't it?" Peter asks the next night. It's dark, only moonlight filtering through the blinds on the window, and all the bedrooms are soundproofed. (In a house with a bunch of werewolves, it's a lucky thing.)

He puts his hand at his throat. He can still feel the monster's fingers digging in. 

"Stiles?" Peter whispers. "Why don't you ever come out?"

He waits for an answer. He gets the feeling the monster is thinking. Finally, he hears a whisper. "Is that an invitation?"

Peter gulps. "Can we make a deal?" The monster laughs, and it sounds like the darkness itself, of things moving in the shadows. Peter shivers. "I just want to make sure you don't hurt me."

"Hmm." There's a rustle under the bed. "How do I know you won't try to hurt _me_?"

It's apparent in that word, _try_ , that the monster doesn't think Peter could actually harm him. Is it true, or is the monster — Stiles — playing another game?

"Don't hurt me and I don't hurt you," Peter says. He leans over the side of the bed and peers beneath. He thought he might see something — eyes glowing in the darkness, maybe. But he doesn't see _anything_. Not even the floorboards beneath the bed. Just… inky blackness. Maybe that's what the monster is made of.

"I won't hurt you… much," Stiles says, right behind him on the bed. Peter jerks upright and turns to see him.

Stiles is sitting right there, cross-legged and relaxed, looking for all the world just like a boy Peter's age. The only things that give him away are his eyes, which are _old_. In the dark of the room, Peter can't tell what color they are, but they don't shine or glow or anything Peter would recognize as supernatural. They just look at him like they know him well.

And Peter likes that. He's never had anyone who knows him, not really. And here is someone who watched him grow up, who heard him cry from loneliness in the night, to whom he told all his secrets when he was feeling fanciful about having his own monster.

"What do you want from me?" Peter asks.

Stiles smirks. "What do you want to give me?"

It has to be more than sex. Peter's smart enough to know _that_. Old, powerful entities do not plot and plan for years beneath someone's bed just so they can get their dick wet. 

Peter licks his lips. His heart is pounding. His cock is throbbing again, and they haven't even touched. "Just… just tell me."

Stiles tilts his head and smiles. "But games are so much fun. You like games too, don't you, Peter?"

"I like games I know I can win," Peter says honestly.

"Well, in this game," Stiles says, and suddenly he's closer, whispering in Peter's ear, "we can both win."

Peter is frustrated, but if he asks for more clarity, Stiles might actually hurt him or… or _worse_. He might leave. He has to know something, though. "What do you want… tonight?"

Stiles's breath is cold against Peter's nape. "Anything you want to give."

"A kiss?" Peter ventures. He'd gladly give more than that, but he figures he should keep it simple at first.

"Are you _testing_ me?" Stiles asks. Peter would almost be afraid except Stiles sounds happy at the prospect. "I'd take more than a kiss if you let me."

"I…"

"But maybe a kiss is a good idea. Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Turn around."

Peter's never felt so hunted. Maybe Stiles's idea of a kiss is more than his own.

Anticipation has his breath coming in short, anxious puffs. His heart is racing. He turns and faces Stiles, who is smiling with teeth. They're even and human-looking, those teeth, but Peter knows better than to trust something looking mundane and safe. Especially now.

"How do you want me?" Peter manages to ask.

"Oh, this is a nice start," Stiles tells him. "I want to feel you." He reaches out, and Peter goes still. Stiles puts a hand on Peter's chest, over his heart. Peter's grateful he's wearing a t-shirt because Stiles touching his _skin_ there might be too much.

Peter can feel the temperature of Stiles's hand is through the thin cotton, though. "Are you always so cold?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, not always. But you always run hot, don't you?"

Peter nods. "So are you going to kiss me or not?"

"Impatient," Stiles chides. "That's not an attractive quality. I'm going to break you… of that."

Sucking in a breath, Peter tries not to focus on the little pause in Stiles's last sentence.

When Stiles tilts his head, it makes him look more inhuman. "Why aren't you scared of me?"

"No, I am, I just," Peter says. He wants his monster more than he's afraid of him. 

"Your mind is fascinating," Stiles says, reaching out and touching his temple with one overly-gentle finger. Peter thinks he could poke through to reach his brain easily. He almost sounds like he wants to break his head open to look at what's inside.

Stiles is so close, and he's getting closer. Peter feels more right now than he's felt in years, like he's on the edge of a cliff, about to be pushed over.

And then Stiles's mouth is on his and Peter's mind whites out. Stiles kisses like he wants to devour him, but only in careful, measured bites. Peter whimpers and his hands flutter in the air, not sure where they're allowed to land. He finally settles them on Stiles's shoulders, and Stiles lets him, so he figures that's okay.

That's his last thought. He tries to kiss back, to give as good as he gets, but Stiles is dominating him so thoroughly that Peter's wolf whines and shows its belly. 

One of Stiles's hands is at his throat now, at his pulse point. Not rough, but like he needs to feel Peter's blood rushing. 

Stiles tastes dark and delicious, and Peter doesn't want this to end. Somehow he ends up flat on his back with Stiles crawling over him. The monster is not as solid or heavy as he looks.

Peter loses control of his shift. He struggles to hold it back, but then Stiles laughs and bites him on the chin. 

"You're almost perfect, Peter," Stiles says, and Peter wants to know what he can do to get rid of that 'almost'. What does Stiles want from him?

Peter lets out a low whimper. 

"Yes," Stiles hisses, and this time when he kisses Peter, Peter can't think at all. Everything is a buzz of static. He knows, distantly, that his cock is hard and leaking in his boxers, but it's not as crucial as Stiles.

When Stiles finally pulls away, Peter's not sure how much time has passed. 

And Peter only wants more. He can't speak to ask, though he'd beg if he had the words. He just stares at Stiles's swollen lips and satisfied smile, flexing his fingers on Stiles's shoulders. 

By the time he gets his thoughts back in order, Stiles looks as if he's going to leave, go back under the bed.

"Wait," Peter whispers.

Stiles raises his eyebrows and smiles. "Something missing?"

Peter gulps. "Touch me."

Stiles looks unimpressed. "I don't think so."

"Please?" Peter asks. "I-" He's much more aware of his cock now.

Stiles's eyes go half-lidded, and he smiles. "Okay. Touch yourself."

"Will you stay?" Peter asks. He tries not to sound so needy.

"I'm always here," Stiles says. "Even when you don't see me."

"I know. I just mean. Stay here, in bed with me? Please?"

"Take your underwear off," Stiles says, and Peter grins and complies.

Stiles looks at his cock curiously. Peter wishes he knew what he's thinking.

"Do what I say," Stiles tells him.

Peter nods, starting to get that overwhelmed feeling again. His cock throbs almost painfully.

And then Stiles surprises him by rolling closer, pressing against his side. His breath isn't quite as cold this time when he breathes against Peter's neck. "Fuck your hand."

"I need some lotion or lube or something," Peter whispers.

Stiles grabs Peter's wrist and licks his palm. He _licks_ , and his tongue is definitely not human. It's… it's cool and wet and _everywhere_ , long and thin between Peter's fingers and then broad and wide against the palm itself. The action almost makes Peter come then and there.

"There you go. Now do it." Stiles's voice sounds smug, but Peter doesn't look at his face.

He jerks himself off. Follows every one of Stiles's instructions. It feels incredible, but like something is missing. He whines and whimpers, and Stiles laughs at him.

"Oh, baby wolf, you just need me to fuck you, don't you?" Stiles whispers near the end, and that's what sends Peter hurtling into orgasm.

Stiles disappears as soon as Peter comes, so that when Peter opens his eyes he's _gone_ , and Peter's left lying there alone, panting, come messy all over his stomach and chest.

* * *

Peter's days slip by, one after the other. He thinks of Stiles, and when he doesn't think of him, something always reminds him.

Sometimes he thinks he even sees Stiles, or hears his laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, there will be a shadow, or in the middle of a crowd, a familiar face. When he focuses, there's nothing, and he shakes his head.

He's not sleeping enough. When he sleeps, he dreams, but he doesn't remember them. Sometimes when he wakes, he can taste blood in his mouth. Half the time, he awakens in a cold sweat, gasping, His heart thunders in his ears. 

Three nights after he last saw Stiles, Peter wakes in tears, and he doesn't know why. Stiles is there, wrapping shadows around him, smelling of dry dust and darkness. 

"It's just a dream," Stiles whispers. "It won't hurt you." Not it _can't_. It won't.

"What's happening to me?" Peter asks tremulously.

"What do you mean?" Stiles asks in return.

Peter bites his lip. Shakes his head. He doesn't think he'll get a straight answer out of his monster anyway.

Why does Stiles want him? What does he see in him? He gathers his courage and asks.

"Oh, sweet monster. My sweet little monster," Stiles croons. "You're so confused, aren't you?"

Peter frowns in the darkness. "Don't make fun of me."

"Then don't ask stupid questions," Stiles says.

Peter shudders. He tries to pull away but Stiles is holding him too tightly. 

"Are you going to let go of me?" Peter asks.

Stiles laughs. "Never."

* * *

Peter doesn't know what he wants. Stiles is powerful, dangerous. There's no telling what he could do. Peter feels himself unraveling, day after day, coming undone. No one pays any attention to him. He goes to school, and it's like he's invisible. At home, he's just Talia's little brother, of no consequence in the family or the pack.

He's lost, and the only one to make him feel anything again is Stiles.

And Stiles only really comes to him if Peter calls. Only touches with explicit permission. Is it a rule he has to follow, some supernatural geas? Or does Stiles just want him to think that?

Peter doesn't trust Stiles to tell him the truth if he asks. So he doesn't.

One night, there's not even a place set for him at dinner. He heads right upstairs. He's not hungry, anyway, so he goes to his bedroom and sits on the bed. The sun is going down, the shadows lengthening in the room. 

He makes sure the light is out. "Stiles?"

Maybe it's too early. Maybe Stiles needs full darkness to manifest.

Peter sits on the edge of his bed and tries not to think of how lonely he is, but it's a weight in his heart pulling his mood down. 

"Stiles?" he calls again, but again there's no answer. Wetness pricks his eyelids. He has to breathe through his mouth because his nose is stuffy. He sniffles and tears fall down his cheeks; he wipes at them halfheartedly. 

He wishes he could fade away.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, crying, but when the darkness envelops the room, Stiles appears and wraps something — his arms, or maybe shadows — around his shoulders. 

"Don't cry, baby monster. I'm here," Stiles whispers, and Peter slumps against him in relief. "Tell me what's wrong."

"No one cares about me. No one even _likes_ me," Peter says, and it sounds so whiny and petulant that he's sure Stiles will laugh at him.

But he doesn't. "Shh, baby," Stiles says. He kisses Peter's temple. "That's not true."

Peter swallows thickly. Whispers back, "Yes, it is."

Stiles goes still, and Peter braces himself for his anger. But then Stiles lets out a breath, sounding surprisingly human, and says, "I haven't told you?"

Peter shouldn't trust him. Shouldn't get his hopes up. He can't help but ask, though. "Told me what?"

"I was so lonely until I found you, baby. I care about you. I _love_ you." The words sweep across his skin like a caress, like genuine affection. 

"You can't," Peter whispers. He can't fall for Stiles's tricks. Because this has to be a trick.

Stiles hums and holds him tighter. "I watched you for so long. My little monster. My baby wolf. I watched you laugh and cry, and I knew you were special."

Peter wants to believe him. He wants to believe so much. His mind works overtime as he tries to find a flaw in what he's hearing. But what if… what if Stiles is telling the truth? What if Stiles was just as lonely?

"What do you want from me?" Peter asks, holding his breath.

"I want you to be mine," Stiles answers without the slightest hesitation.

Peter blinks back more tears. "You really… love me?"

"I do," Stiles whispers, and it echoes in the dark room.

"What does it mean to be yours?" Peter asks.

Cool lips touch his. A tongue slips between Peter's lips when he gasps. He feels those lips smile against his own. "Let me show you. Just a taste."

Peter nods. 

"You have to tell me," Stiles says. "Tell me what you want."

"I want," Peter says nervously, "I want you to… to touch me. And kiss me."

"Is that all?" Stiles practically purrs.

Peter's breath catches again, and he shakes his head. He says in a whisper, all in a rush, "I want you to fuck me."

"My baby monster," Stiles says, laughing and sounding elated. "See? You only had to say."

And then Peter is naked, somehow, flat on his back, shadows wrapping around his wrists and ankles. Something slick teases his hole, but it's not Stiles's hands, both of which are cupping Peter's face. 

"I'll make it so good for you," Stiles tells him. 

"I… I've been practicing," Peter confesses. But of course, Stiles already knows.

"Watched you with your fingers in your little hole," Stiles breathes against his ear. "Watched you try to get it deeper, get more. But it was never enough, was it?"

Just the reminder of his frustration has Peter's eyes tearing up again. He shakes his head. "Wasn't you."

Stiles chuckles. "But you know I'll fill you up just right, don't you? Lift your knees."

Peter obeys, but mostly it's because the grip on his ankles lifts his legs for him. He feels… naked. Raw. Exposed.

And then the thing at his hole stops teasing and presses in. It's cool and slick and not quite what Peter wants, but it's something. It's thicker than his fingers. Longer, too. It feels like he thinks Stiles's shadow would feel. Maybe that's what it is. A tendril of his shadow.

Stiles kisses him deeply. Bites at his lips, and again it's like he wants to eat Peter up.

"You're so perfect," Stiles whispers as the tendril stretches him wide. "So special. My baby monster."

It hurts, just a little. The stretch burns. Peter opens his mouth to tell Stiles, to ask him to pull it out again, but then Stiles devours his words and the tendril presses against his prostate.

Peter whimpers into Stiles's mouth. Comes, sudden and hard, as Stiles kisses him deeply, pulling all his breath out.

 _Perfect_ , says a voice in Peter's head. It sounds just like Stiles.

* * *

It feels like a dream. Not what he does with Stiles, but everything else. His daily life doesn't feel genuine anymore, and Peter only feels _real_ when he's with Stiles.

"Can you follow me out of my room?" Peter asks.

Stiles laughs. "What do you think?"

Peter thinks he gets lonely at school, and it would be nice to have some company. But he's not about to ask a powerful entity of shadows and darkness to tag along like Mary's little lamb. Instead, he says, "Can you come with me to the forest?"

Stiles doesn't answer, just looks at him. Like he's burrowing into his head and already knows what Peter's going to say.

Peter swallows. "It's the full moon tomorrow night."

He doesn't want to go with his sister and her family. He wants… he wants Stiles to be with him. He wants him to be _pack_ , but he doesn't think Stiles is a pack creature.

"I don't run through the woods, howling at the moon," Stiles says dryly.

"No, but…" Peter's words dry up, and he bows his head, though he keeps taking quick peeks at Stiles's face. "Sorry."

Stiles looks at him. His eyes glitter in the darkness. "Do you feel the pull of the moon that's coming?"

"Of course I do. I'm a werewolf," Peter says with a frown.

Stiles keeps looking at him, smiling strangely. 

Peter thinks about how the moon makes him feel. The urges he gets to run and howl, the itch beneath his skin to shift. It's still there, but it's muted. The full moon occurs in less than a full day, and he doesn't feel irritable the way he usually does. 

Maybe… maybe his control is just better. He blinks. Is Stiles his new anchor?

He holds out a hand and shifts his claws. They come out readily and he sighs in relief. But. _But_.

They look different. Peter's incredulous. "What?"

Stiles grabs his wrist and pulls him closer. Looks at his claws with a satisfied smirk on his face. "Nice. I like the black."

"They've never looked like that before," Peter says. They look sharper, but they aren't the color of werewolf claws. They're ink black, and when Peter shifts his hands to look more human, he thinks he sees something like a shadow or a puff of black smoke left behind for just a moment. He blinks and it's gone. 

"Are you complaining?" Stiles asks. He squeezes Peter's wrist hard enough to bruise him.

"No," Peter whispers, afraid to say anything else. His heart is in his throat. How can he change like this? What is Stiles doing to him?

"Stay here for the full moon," Stiles tells him.

Peter doesn't say that werewolves don't do well cooped up when the moon is full. He's sure Stiles plans to keep him occupied.

* * *

At breakfast, there's no plate for him, but he fixes his own plate. Strangely, the eggs and sausage are like dust in his mouth. He looks around him, but all he sees is dim grayness. 

He blinks hard. There are shadows in the corner where the sunlight isn't touching. He gets up from the table and walks over to them, not understanding why, but knowing he feels better once he's in them. 

The shadows feel like Stiles — cool and almost comforting. He looks down and sees them wrapping around his legs like they want to pull him deeper. 

He looks at his sister, wondering if she's noticed. Talia just eats her breakfast and feeds her children. She talks to her husband in clipped tones, but there's nothing odd about that. What's weird is that no one seems to notice a member of their pack is standing in the corner, slowly being consumed by inky blackness.

"Talia?" Peter calls, but it comes out too soft. She doesn't hear him.

Peter holds out a hand to the shadows, and they wrap around him like a snake, like a constrictor. He turns a little, rotates his wrist, and the shadows tighten.

His heart is thundering. It's all he can hear. How can the rest of the family not hear it, too? He closes his eyes and counts to ten, hoping the shadows will be gone when he opens them.

Instead, the world is even dimmer when he looks. His family feels very far away. He steps back, looking to lean against the wall, so he doesn't fall down in shock, but then he sort of phases out and through. Through the wall. He calls out for help, but he's not sure who he's calling, his sister or Stiles? He yelps, but then he feels softness beneath him.

Somehow he moved from the downstairs dining room to his bedroom. Through the shadows to his bed.

No, no. Peter doesn't like this. What is happening to him?

He hears soft, dangerous laughter in his head.

* * *

For the full moon, Peter wants to forget Stiles exists. He wants to run in the forest with his pack, but they don't acknowledge him. Shadows cling to him as he goes to meet his sister in the clearing and no one looks his way.

He might as well be invisible.

The moonlight makes him cast his own shadow on the forest floor. It writhes and stretches out farther than it should. It's… unnatural, but so is he. Now.

He's so lonely, but the shadows welcome him like as if he belongs with them.

Maybe he does. He's not quite a werewolf anymore, is he? He's something else. Not quite like Stiles, not that powerful. Not yet. But he's surrendering to it, and the more he gives in, the closer to Stiles he is.

The thought makes him shiver. Fear, excitement, it doesn't matter which anymore. He doesn't think he can stop it.

Maybe if he told Stiles 'no' in the beginning. Before things got this far.

Now, he's just waiting for the final fall into the unknown. Will he be dragged down, or will he jump into the darkness with his eyes open?

* * *

He leaves the pack in the woods and makes his way back home. For given values of 'home'. The entire walk back he feels watched. Stiles's eyes are on him, and he's not sure if the monster is angry or amused.

He'll soon find out.

"Stiles?" he whispers as he walks up the stairs. He knows Stiles is there. He's hiding in the lengthening, writhing shadows.

Peter trembles as he stands on the threshold of his dark room. For a moment, he wishes Stiles was just a figment of his imagination. A dream of blood and desire, but still… just a dream.

"I'm back. I'm here," Peter says, trying to sound stronger than he is. He's here by choice, right? He didn't have to return home. He doesn't have to call out. He takes a step into the room, and the shadows wrap around his ankle.

He ignores them. Takes another step.

"There's my brave boy," the shadows whisper all around.

 _I'm not_ , Peter wants to say. _I'm just too alone without you._ His heart thunders in his chest.

There's an inky blackness that coalesces into shapes, and then Stiles is sitting casually on his bed as if he owns it, as if he belongs there. He smiles, and Peter takes another step toward him. He's not sure now if he's doing it himself or if the shadows are pushing him along.

He almost misses when Stiles was just an unnamed monster under his bed. Back when Peter was so ignorant to think he could own a monster. He remembers calling Stiles 'his', and he wasn't afraid, not really.

Now, he's terrified. Stiles could do anything to him. Could make him do anything. Could turn him inside out and then laugh about it if Peter was even able to protest.

Stiles is going to take him over, and Peter can't stop him.

"Why are you so scared?" Stiles asks as his nostrils flare. "I can smell your fear."

"My pack doesn't see me anymore," Peter whispers. It's not what he wants to say, but it's what comes out.

But Stiles shakes his head. "Did they ever? Really?" He holds out a hand and Peter comes closer. Stiles smiles. "You've always been different. Special. Couldn't you feel it?"

Peter shakes his head, but it's a lie. He has always felt different. He thought it was because he was his parents' youngest, the odd one out, the late child. He always had strange moods, always felt alone. 

"You were meant for this," Stiles tells him. He's still holding out his hand. 

Peter puts his hand in Stiles's and gets pulled closer, until he's standing in the V of Stiles's legs. 

"You're meant for me," Stiles whispers, petting his hair.

Peter shudders. "Do you really love me?" He shouldn't ask, but it slips out. 

Stiles tilts his head, looking like he's eyeing prey. "Of course I do. How could I not? You're perfect. My baby monster. Look at you."

"I don't know what I am anymore," Peter says.

"You're _mine_ ," Stiles tells him. 

Peter swallows hard and leans down. Presses his lips against Stiles's in a hesitant kiss.

He doesn't want to think about shadows or black claws or what his eyes might look like now. He doesn't want to remember that he's turning into something new and frightening. He just wants Stiles to make him forget.

He crowds up closer to Stiles, whose body doesn't feel as cold as it used to. Is he becoming warmer, or is Peter getting colder like Stiles?

He opens his mouth and lets Stiles kiss him deeper. He doesn't want to think about body temperatures, either. Stiles's teeth are sharp against his lips, but he doesn't bite hard enough to draw blood. Peter almost wishes he would. So far, this is like a lush dream, and at least pain is real. Peter feels like he's sinking down, and he needs something to hold on to.

"You're thinking too hard," Stiles tells him. Scratches too-sharp nails against Peter's scalp.

Peter closes his eyes and gasps. "Then make it better. Make it so I can't think."

"Ask nicely," Stiles says, wrapping a hand — or maybe another shadow — around Peter's throat.

It makes it hard to swallow. Peter nods as best he can. "Please. Stiles. Please."

"That's better," Stiles breathes. "I love hearing you beg."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Tears roll down his cheeks. He can barely breathe, but his cock is hard and throbbing.

"Shh," Stiles hushes. The thing around his neck slackens but doesn't fall away. 

Peter can't escape, can't hide. But he doesn't want to. He's _terrified_ , but not about this, not about sex. The sex is incredible. But Stiles always wants more than that. He pushes Peter into giving up more — more than he thinks he has, beyond the boundaries of what he thought he could give. Stiles probably thinks those boundaries never applied to him, shouldn't be there. 

"You're so cute," Stiles murmurs, wiping below Peter's eyes with his fingertips.

"Please," Peter whispers again, and this time he doesn't even know what he's asking for.

Stiles kisses him breathless. It gives him chills. "Give in, baby monster. Let go."

And what if he does? He might turn into smoke and shadows…

He might turn into nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> That's the end and I'm not writing more. What happens to Peter? I'll leave that up to your imagination.


End file.
